


Red

by marlowewilde



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, M/M, art. lots of art, artsy R, house-warming, moving in together nerds, what I think les amis houses are like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:02:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowewilde/pseuds/marlowewilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire have just moved in to their new apartment in New York and when Enjolras comes home to the dizzying smell of wet paint he's more than a little apprehensive.<br/>But, if there was a work of art that could perfectly represent Enjolras and Grantaire, then why wouldn't Grantaire recreate it on their wall as soon as they move in?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> While this is mainly my art-loving brain in a fic, I also got really interested in imagining an Enjolras/Grantaire love nest and how that would come to be, how it would look etc. 
> 
> More notes at the end. Enjoy!
> 
> (P.S. I suck at summaries so if you made it this far I really appreciate you)

 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras called from the door, the smell of fresh paint making him dizzy. He huffed in aggravation as he tried to manoeuvre around the boxes still cluttering the hall. “Jesus, R, you promised you were going to unpack” he sighed, not really surprised to still see boxes everywhere.

“E?” Grantaire’s voice came from one of the other rooms “where are you?” he called, a little frantic.

“I haven’t made it past the hall!” 

“Stay there!” Grantaire yelled and a split second later he came sliding around the corner, his socks unable to grip at the wooden floors. He wore a paint spattered NYAA t-shirt, about five sizes too big and came down past his thigh. Underneath, he wore a pair of ancient boxers, the deep green and blue of the plaid only barely visible under the shirt. His hair was a bird's nest of thick black curls. He looked tired yet full of energy, obviously running on adrenaline . His hands were covered with paint; an indiscernible brownish mix of colours. Despite his unkempt appearance, Enjolras still felt his breath hitch at the sight of those blue eyes, today alive and electric, and of course, that wickedly childish grin.

“Hey, Risky Business,” Enjolras said in mock annoyance “What's with the boxes?” he gestured to each side of him and Grantaire just skid into his now open arms, planting a kiss on his smiling lips as Enjolras steadied him. He let his arms wind around the small of Grantaire's back and shook his head as he laughed. “Have you even showered today? You’re disgusting” he whispered but pressed another kiss to Grantaire's lips.

“I got distracted” Grantaire said with a shrug.

“Oh? May I ask what by?” Enjolras asked, his eyebrow raised. Grantaire licked his lips, nervously and his body tensed.

“Now, don’t be mad” he said, tentatively, slightly flinching. Enjolras felt the smile leave his face and his eyes narrowed.

“Well, don’t give me a reason to be mad” he threatened. He'd been joking (mostly) but Grantaire's face still dropped in fear. Enjolras chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Grantaire, relax. What is it?” Grantaire remained silent, not totally trusting Enjolras' calm demeanour.

“I really need you to promise” he persisted. This time Enjolras hesitated, worried now.

“Grantaire what have you done?” an edge of genuine fear crept into his voice. Grantaire took a deep breath and readied himself to confess.

“I'd like to start by saying I love you.” Grantaire began only to be interrupted by Enjolras, his anxiety building.

“Grantaire,” he growled.

“Alright, okay,” Grantaire sighed in defeat, bringing his hands up in surrender only to rest them on Enjolras solid but slender chest. “I may have taken some liberties with the décor” he paused there to gauge Enjolras' reaction.

“What, you’ve started arranging the furniture?” Enjolras offered, perplexed.

“No, nothing to do with furniture” Grantaire said slowly.

“Oh, god, you haven’t knocked a wall through or anything, have you?” Enjolras asked in alarm already making a move to inspect the damage. Grantaire pushed against his chest, keeping him put.

“Don't be ridiculous, I’m no contractor!” Grantaire scoffed, rolling his eyes, only to be met with an annoyed expression from Enjolras.

“You ambush me in the doorway, determined to keep me out of the house like you’ve a dead body in there and _I'm_ acting ridiculous?” he challenged, “What have you done?” Grantaire sighed and took his hand, leading him into the main room of the apartment.

“Listen, just don’t be mad, if you hate it it's no problem, it can be gone by tomorrow. I just...” Grantaire shrugged and slightly turned to look at Enjolras bewildered expression, “I just thought it might...suit you” he spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, not wanting to spoil the surprise. He'd been confident all day but about a half an hour before Enjolras was expected home Grantaire became paralysed by fear. What if he hated it? What if he thought it was the worst thing possible and Grantaire had ruined their first real night living in their new apartment?

After all, Enjolras had paid for it. Grantaire was still in college and though he begged Enjolras to choose somewhere he could actually help pay for but Enjolras had refused...

 

* * *

 

“You need the space, R.” he'd said as they stood in the huge, empty apartment on their final viewing “And I really don’t like the idea of working my ass of at this firm, earning all this money and not getting to spend it on something nice for us. How are you supposed to paint while I'm trying to work in a tiny five floor walk-up, huh? We'd kill one another.”

Grantaire had to agree.

“I'd stab you and use your blood for a piece called ‘Apollo falls’” he conceded with a defeated shrug.

“And I’d chop you up into little pieces and feed them into the shredder” Enjolras replied with a smile, knowing he'd won. He pulled Grantaire in for a reassuring kiss “Trust me, R, it's going to be great here”

“How am I ever supposed to win an argument with a ball-busting attorney for a boyfriend?” Grantaire whined. Enjolras laughed.

“Lucky for us you’re hardly ever right”

 

* * *

 

Once Grantaire had seen the apartment it hadn’t taken him too long to accept defeat. It had a huge open-plan living space, encompassing kitchen, sitting room and dining area.

The kitchen was over to the side. It was square and minimal, with a counter lining the walls as well as cabinets (which had already been expertly organised by Enjolras.) There was one main fridge and a smaller wine cooler. Every appliance was top of the line; a troop of futuristic chrome and steel. All utensils were red- everything from the coffee machine and kettle to the plates and the row of razor sharp knives. (Another argument Enjolras had won.)

Towards he back of the apartment, by the full length window looking out onto the busy New York street, was the huge dining table, made of an African wood of charcoal black, surrounded by matching chairs. It was neither modern nor was it classic; it was timeless in its sturdy simplicity. They had never used it (for dining anyway.) On the rare occasion that Enjolras and Grantaire dined at home they preferred to eat on the luxurious corner settee by the window, finished in the same black as the table.

“Are you sure it's not too much black?” Cosette asked when she saw the furniture being moved in. She had chosen a palette of creams and mints for the apartment she and Marius lived in, preferring tapestry and Laura Ashley prints to Enjolras and Grantaire's more minimalist colours.

“Definitely too much black” Eponine agreed. Her and Combeferre's place was much more miss-matched, a manic blend of her cool Parisian aesthetic with Combeferre's classic Baroque patterns and ancient leather bound volumes by Greek philosophers.

“We like black” was Grantaire's explanation, “it's timelessly cool. Classic yet modern. Plus, you know, I’m an artist; I can’t be expected to settle on one colour so I chose all of them put together.” he finished with a satisfied smile.

“Black is strong and intimidating yet unassuming.” Enjolras added, slinging an arm around Grantaire as they all stood in the apartment on moving day, “It suits us.”

“Yeah, dark, arrogant and standoffish” quipped Courfeyrac. His and Jehan's apartment was a blinding mess of colour and pattern. From an Ikea coffee table in lime green to striped walls with snippets of Jehan's poetry scrawled hastily when he couldn’t find paper. Every cup and plate was miss-matched and towers of books were stacked everywhere; a miniature literary metropolis built on the words of Voltaire and Shakespeare, Wilde and Ginsberg to Burgess, Salinger, Ian Fleming and J.K. Rowling. Chipped coffee mugs topped sky scrapers of coffee table books on film and flowers.

 

Mounted to the wall in Enjolras and Grantaire's living room was a large TV that would go mainly unused, only by Grantaire on lazy afternoons when crappy daytime TV was preferable to classes. Down from the TV was their joint book collection which could rival a small library and spanned centuries and continents. There was also a very complicated sound system with stacks of records and CDs from every possible genre.They had a custom library (also finished in a matte black wood) which was fitted with little breaks and gaps to leave room for plants, photos or lamps. 

At the minute the only addition had been a photo taken of the two last Halloween when they'd been persuaded to go as Apollo and Dionysus. (Both were clad in classic Greek togas and golden headdress. Enjolras carried his lyre and had a bow and arrow slung over his back. He had also allowed Grantaire to brush some gold powder over his exposed shoulder and arms to give his alabaster skin an iridescent golden shimmer. Grantaire held a bunch of grapes and had placed some vine leafs in his curls, as well as dusting himself in a silver body powder, giving a cooler glow to his skin and adding a rather unnecessary definition to his strong arms.) 

Off from the main area of the apartment was their large bedroom, again facing onto the city, the enormous window equipped with blackout blinds. (Neither of them were really morning people.) It was quite minimal, save for the incredibly large bed. The plush duvet and cumulous pillows were all a crisp white. There was a wardrobe lining one wall, split in half. Grantaire's side was still empty, save for some dirty jeans and underwear. Enjolras was perfectly laid out from tuxedo to gym clothes in order of occasion. On either side of their cloud bed was a bedside locker. One had an alarm clock and a small lamp, along with a neat pile of documents, the other was a mess of brushes and charcoals, scattered with Aspirins and empty condom wrappers. Off from the bedroom was their bathroom. It had both shower and bathtub (the two unable to agree) two sinks (one spotless and one...disgusting) the whole room a smart mix of chrome and neutrals.

Originally the space had come with another even bigger bedroom but they had had it partitioned creating a basic office for the lawyer and a small studio for the artist. The office was basic but professional. It had a large desk and a luxurious leather swivel chair. There were shelves of different binders and folders, all in red or black. There was also another espresso machine (Enjolras' only personal extravagance.) As the room didn't face onto a window, there was a large skylight to let in natural light. Enjolras' desk was the only thing in his life that was untidy (besides his boyfriend.) It was a mess of papers and post-it notes, business cards and black binders. There was a phone buried somewhere and different reminders were stuck to the computer screen and keyboard.

The studio was incredibly bright and sparse. The walls were white and there were various canvasses leaning against the far wall with a small stool. Art books and references were stacked in the corner with an iPod dock. Lining one wall were dozens of brushes and other tools as well as different paints and piles of charcoals and pencils. Above them was a large mood board with a muddle of different clippings and postcards and colour swatches that could only make sense to Grantaire. On the opposite wall, under the window was a small desk and stool, covered with papers and notebooks, sketch pads and folders. This is also where Grantaire kept his laptop and his main sketchbook, bound in a dark green leather. On the window sill there was usually an empty coffee mug and an ashtray. Grantaire's studio was the only room he could smoke in and he usually liked to perch on the deep  windowsill and look out onto the street. On the final wall was the piece Grantaire was working on at the moment. A small stool was kept beside it but he seldom sat when painting and so it was used to hold different brushes.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras was tugged into the main living area behind Grantaire. He was now incredibly nervous to find out exactly what Grantaire had done. Grantaire however, was beginning to grow excited again, almost certain Enjolras would be pleased.

“Grantaire, can you just tell me?” Enjolras sighed, “Really, whatever it is it won’t matter, I'm way too tired to care.” he rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, exhausted from work.

“Hey,” Grantaire turned and stopped them by the kitchen, “Have you ever heard of a painter called Mark Rothko?” Enjolras felt a whimpered noise of sheer bewilderment and frustration escape his lips before he sighed and rolled his eyes in defeat, totally exhausted.

“No, I have never heard of a painter called Mark Rothko.” he replied, wearily.

“Oh,” said Grantaire cheerily, “Well in that case, this was all me” he finished with a grin and once again took Enjolras' hand and went to lead him over to the dining area, only to stop after a further three paces.

“Actually, you know what?” he said biting at his lip “Let’s do this properly” he then proceeded to step behind Enjolras and cover his eyes with his hands.

“Grantaire, the smell of paint is making me nauseous” he warned, “and I really don’t like this when you still have boxes everywhere. You’re going to lead me into a wall, I can see it coming. Will you-”

“Can you just shut the fuck up for ten seconds?” Grantaire asked, sweetly before exhaling. “Today I was thinking of you and I was also thinking about what to do with the walls and well...this happened” With that he took his hands from Enjolras' face. “Now, if you hate it we can obviously repaint. I still have loads of left-over white from the studio and it can be gone tomorrow and, furthermore...”

But Enjolras didn't hear the rest of Grantaire's ramblings; he was too captivated by the painting that now took up the centre of the wall.

_Red._

That was the first thing to come to Enjolras' mind. The painting was large, rectangular and almost went from floor to ceiling. It was painted straight onto the wall, not canvas and Grantaire had just let the paint fade out on its own rather that mark it especially exactly. Enjolras stood breathless, intoxicated by the deep burgundy and vibrant crimson. From afar the work almost looked like red brick or like two slim windows looking out onto a dark expanse of the world beyond. Or, oppositely, like a huge window had been bricked up. Enjolras however, was revelling in standing only inches away.

From there he could make out where Grantaire had let his arm slash at the length of the mural in one quick slice, red droplets falling, as if from a slit throat. He could see shorter, more precise sweeps, like a slick of lipstick. Towards the edges, then, Enjolras could see where Grantaire had stabbed at the wall, furiously almost frenzied but he could also make out sections where Grantaire had been incredibly gentle, placing his brush delicately, leaving poppy petals of brilliant crimson. All at once Enjolras saw passion and rage and pain fire. Love and sex and death and blood. It represented a hypnotizing and intense mix of savage rage but also romance and desire. It was anger and lust and euphoria- a wonderful intensity that was wholly beautiful.

 

“...and I mean we have to _live_ with it so if you don’t like it I’d really prefer if you just told me...” Enjolras once again became aware of Grantaire's constant stream on chatter and blinked hard to pull himself back to the present. “But if you just let me explain I reall-” Enjolras interrupted his jabber with a passionate kiss, cupping his face lovingly.

“I love it” he said against Grantaire's lips. “I love it and I love you” he continued. He let go of Grantaire's face only to wind an arm around his waist and turn back to look at the mural. “How did you think of it?” he asked in utter amazement. Grantaire's smile was small but relieved.

“Rothko painted a series or murals for the Four Seasons called the Seagram Murals. This is my interpretation. Ours is a little redder,” he began, eager to keep the art lesson to a minimum, “and every time I come across one of them in my books and stuff I always think of you." When Enjolras' brow furrowed, perplexed, Grantaire rolled his eyes and leaned into his body even more. “E, you’re all over it,” he sighed.

“I am?” he said, the words muffled as he kissed Grantaire's hair. He now saw little flecks of red paint that resembled dried blood at this stage. Grantaire scoffed and Enjolras could envision his eye roll.

“When Rothko was commissioned to paint the murals he took it as the perfect chance to fuck with the New York elite. He said he wanted to “upset, offend and torture the diners.” He wanted every pretentious fuck in that restaurant to be put off their champagne and caviar and hundred dollar steaks by thought of blood and terror. You see how it kind of looks like bricks?” Grantaire looked up at Enjolras as he gestured towards the design. Enjolras nodded and he continued “He wanted them to feel like they were suffocating, like every escape route had been blocked and they were going to die in there. Rothko felt the punishment for showing off like that and being so gluttonous should be death” Grantaire's voice was dark with malice and Enjolras was captivated by the story thanks to Grantaire's showmanship. “Now, I don't know why but for some reason that reminds me of someone” Grantaire joked looking up at Enjolras.

“The man was a genius” was Enjolras' only reply. His voice was intense and strong and his eyes were intently fixed on the mural.

“Yeah, I reckon you two would have hit it off” Grantaire mused.

“Plus, I like red.” Enjolras said. Grantaire pulled away and looked at him perplexed.

“ _Plus I like red?”_ he repeated, his eyes narrowing, “Christ,” was all he could manage as he pulled a hand through his curls and sighing “You know _shit_ about art. I mean I knew you were no expert but Jesus!” Enjolras face was frozen in shock, totally confused by Grantaire's reaction. Grantaire stared at him for a minute, as if he was waiting for something to occur to Enjolras. When nothing happened he rolled his eyes.

“Enjolras, you _are_ red.” he exclaimed. “If ever there was a work of art that perfectly represented a human being...” he trailed off, still amazed by Enjolras ignorance. “It's fire. It's rage. It's intensity and burn and terror and...” here Grantaire paused, licked his lips and continued as his expression softened, “But it's also passion and love and beauty and majesty. It's you.” he finished simply.

“Enjolras, when I look at you I see the most amazing combination of allure and fury. You’re warm and passionate and charming but you’re also brooding and intimidating. Just like this painting you can fit in perfectly among the upper class but really you're intent is to mock and deceive them.

"Rothko got paid to create something pretty for those ass-holes to look at, only to give them a mind-fuck on a canvas. You are being paid ridiculous amounts of money by major business ass-holes only to help them fuck one another over. A mind-fuck in a deposition.” at this Enjolras blushed and laughed a little. Grantaire took Enjolras' face in his hands.

“When I look at this mural I see something savage yet romantic, terrifying yet erotic, terrible yet attractive. I see something not only beautiful but with a whole lot to say. I see _you_.”

Enjolras was speechless. Yes, he'd seen these qualities in the mural but in _him?_ The fact that Grantaire thought of him made Enjolras feel amazing but to know Grantaire thought _this_ of him made his stomach flutter.

“Thank you” was all he could think to say, “Thank you so much. The fact that you did this for me....” he trailed off as tears threatened the corners of his eyes, “I love you so much” he said, his voice cracking. “If I could paint it for you I would,” he said bringing Grantaire's hand to his lips. Grantaire beamed, delighted by Enjolras' reaction. It was moments like these when he knew Enjolras was sure of just how much he loved him that Grantaire felt true accomplishment.

“You don’t have to paint it,” he said sweetly, “I can tell” And he could, for it was painted on Enjolras' face. He heard it in the crack in his voice and he saw it reflected in the tear that made Enjolras' eyes glisten.

“We'll have to find something that represents you to put up” Enjolras said, wiping at his eye and clearing his throat. Grantaire hid his amusement but failed to hide how impressed he was with himself.

“Ah, well now here's where your brilliant boyfriend has really outdone himself,” Grantaire's grin widened as he melted back into Enjolras' side, “One of Rothko's main influences for the Seagram Murals was the Villa of the Mysteries in Pompeii. Do you know it?”

“I know of it” Enjolras replied, curious.

“Well,” Grantaire continued, “The Villa of the Mysteries is so called because no one really knows what it was used for. However, the most plausible theory is that it was used for the secret worship of Dionysus.” At this, Grantaire stopped to add some magnitude to the revelation. Enjolras laughed, impressed but also highly amused by Grantaire's smugness.

“The villa is covered in these wonderfully preserved murals of deep deep reds depicting a woman's initiation into the cult of Dionysus. The purpose of the cult is said to have been the liberation of those marginalised by Greek society through dance and song and copious amounts of alcohol. Basically, the initiates would get so wasted they didn’t give a fuck.”

“You know, I never believed in reincarnation before...” Enjolras teased.

“I know. I would have fit in perfectly.” Grantaire replied, almost saddened, “So,” he continued, “I have skilfully managed to represent us both in one handy mural. Now am I brilliant or am I brilliant?”

“You’re beyond brilliant,” Enjolras answered, pulling Grantaire in for another kiss, “I love you and your brilliant self, you brilliant brilliance of a man” he laughed.

“Stop, you’re making me blush” Grantaire murmured, his cheeks now matching the walls. The triumphant grin he now wore would stay plastered across his face for days to come.  


"Now," Grantaire said with a smile, “I’m going to go take a shower. You can keep standing there if you want or…” but he didn’t have to finish the sentence; Enjolras was already loosening his tie and grinning. Grantaire bit his lip as he took his hand and lead him into the bathroom, giggling as he practically skipped. Enjolras laughed softly as he let himself be pulled away, knowing this was only the first of many blissful days in their new home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, the paintings I'm talking about are the Seagram Murals by Mark Rothko (and if any theatre dorks are wondering, yeah, I thought of it when I saw Eddie Redmayne in "Red" on Broadway and...connections.)
> 
> As I say in the story, they're a series but I focused on this one mainly. newamericanpaintings.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/1985-38-2_small.jpg


End file.
